


Loose Strings

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: You can’t tie off a string if it’s in an infinite loop with another.





	Loose Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Tw for mild alcohol abuse.

[Happier ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TpcBDJZsJA)\- Ed Sheeran 

 

_(sat in the corner of the room)_ **  
**

 

There’s someone butchering Whitney at the microphone next to the piano and Darren wants to throttle them. Usually he doesn’t put much stock into the finesse of someone’s voice- it’s passion and emotion that matters, but this just sounds… wrong.

 

(It doesn’t matter that he’s heard Chris sing this song a thousand times in the shower, muffled by the glass screen, rivulets of water running down his freckled shoulders-)

 

A friend pushes another drink into Darren’s hands- whiskey on the rocks like he usually orders, but the smell of it just reminds him of stolen kisses in club bathrooms and empty bottles of Jack in his peripheral vision as a body gasped and writhed underneath his.

 

Darren blinks,  _hard_ , and knocks the drink back, ignoring the burn. A couple more and he won’t even notice it.

 

(A couple more and he’ll stop thinking of Chris.)

 

_(ain't nobody hurt you like I hurt you)_

 

As expected, Darren doesn’t stop thinking of Chris.

 

In fact, a bar tab he doesn’t want to look at and an over-tipped cab ride later, he’s standing at Chris’ fancy mechanical gate, propped up against a wall to prevent himself from falling face-first into the intercom.

 

Chris must see him through the camera, and the gate opens with a slow, wheedling grind. It’s almost deafening in the silence of the night, and Darren stares at his ridiculously expensive Italian loafers. What was he expecting? That Chris would turn him away?

 

(He wanted Chris to turn him away, he thinks. It would’ve helped Darren understand what the word  _over_  actually meant.)

 

“Come on,” says a voice, soft and low. “Inside before someone sees you.”

 

Darren feels himself being lifted up, an arm strong around his waist, familiar like an well-traversed road or a childhood lullaby. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s mostly for the fact that he’s showed up at three in the morning without warning, without the right to even  _do_  so, but Darren can’t pretend he doesn’t have a million other things to apologize for.

 

Chris says nothing, only pushes open the door, nudges Cooper’s curious nose out of the way, and lugs Darren upstairs. He finds himself with his back against the bathtub, toilet bowl to his right and a glass of water to his left.

 

There’s the crinkling of plastic, and an aspirin appears next to the glass. Darren looks up at Chris, who shrugs. “I just bought a new rug. Figured if you were to be sick, you should get it somewhere that wouldn’t take three hundred bucks to dry-clean.”

 

“ _Chris_.”

 

“Stop,” Chris says shortly. “Apologize for getting shit-faced, but don’t apologize for coming to me.” His voice softens imperceptibly. “Just because we’re not-” he stops, and swallows, “-I still care about you, okay?”

 

Darren tries and fails for a lopsided grin. “I apologise for getting shit-faced.”

 

Chris doesn’t even crack a smile. Instead, his eyes seem just a little bit more sad, just a little bit more weary. Darren wants to kick himself. He  _made_  Chris feel this way, he’s the  _reason_  Chris is hurting, he’s such a  _fucking_ -

 

A cool palm cups the side of his face, and bright blue irises come up close and blur in his vision. “The guest bed’s made up, if you want it.”

 

Darren crawls into the unfamiliar sheets later that night, and thinks about how Chris is lying alone, just a wall away.

 

_(if you're moving on)_

 

***

 

_“This is Chris, leave a message.”_

 

“Chris, Chris- you’ve gotta be here man, it’s fucking great! Matt’s back, he’s been asking for you, I had to tell him what happ-

 

...anyway I just wanted to say, I miss you. I miss you and it fucking hurts and I-

 

...just remembered how you once told me you hated drunk texts.”

 

***

 

_(i could try to smile to hide the truth)_

 

“How are you doing?”

 

Chris’ voice is loud and high, fighting to be heard over the thud of bass and the thrum of conversation, and Darren tries not to grip his glass too hard as they veer closer and closer.

 

“I’ve been doing great,” he manages to get out, loud enough that Chris looks at him disbelievingly (and just a little sadly, Darren thinks).

 

“I’d forgotten what a shit liar you are,” Chris replies, and Darren doesn’t know what to say.

 

_‘Yeah, seeing you everyday is just a little bit torturous, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or dreading the off season because I won’t have a reason to see your face, and I had to buy a different cologne because I can’t handle smelling the same as you, and-’_

 

Yeah. Unlikely.

 

Instead, he plasters a smile on his face and tries not to shatter his glass. “I really am.”

 

Chris looks- disappointed? His eyes flicker down to the drink in Darren’s hand, and he can see the lingering sadness there, and Darren just wants to get that fucking look  _off his face_. He wants to get him to smile again, to see those dimples show and those eyes twinkle, to just hear that beautiful laugh and know he’s the reason for it-

 

Someone calls Chris’ name from afar, and he turns to look, eyes lighting up when he sees some dude in hipster glasses and cutoffs. Darren takes one look at him and immediately hates him. He’s about six-foot two with an unnaturally white smile and a stupid leather jacket, slinging his arm around Chris’ shoulders before holding out a hand to Darren.

 

Darren doesn’t even hear his name, or what he says in return, only stares blankly at the way Chris has to turn his head up to look the dude in the eye, the smile back on his face.

 

“I’m going to go say hi to Rita,” Chris says, reaching out his hand to squeeze Darren’s forearm. “I’ll see you around?”

 

It’s probably saying something that Darren doesn’t even know who Rita  _is_ ; he used to know about everyone and everything in Chris’ life. Darren supposes he’s just a memory now. Just a blip in Chris’ timeline, a story he tells to friends, another  _ending;_  a loose string tied off.

 

Darren watches Chris leave, and lets his eyes burn along with the prints of soft fingers on his forearm.

 

***

 

_(breaks your heart like lovers do)_

 

It’s been a black day.

 

Darren’s been having more and more of them recently, days where he doesn’t want to get out of bed, nights where he gets into the sheets knowing he won’t be able to go to sleep.

 

He works, as usual. There’s no excuse to waste time- every hour, every minute, every second, is precious time, used to plan, film, record, write.

 

(It’s also a way to escape, to drown himself in lyrics and notes and numbers. To forget what exactly it is he’s running away from.)

 

Today is also a black day because he’s seeing Chris again for the first time in weeks.

 

Filming has been off for the past couple of months, and there’s a party tonight to celebrate the new season. Darren has to stop himself from knocking back a few pre-drinks beforehand, knowing that Chris, ever punctual, will be there as soon as he steps inside.

 

He shoves the fancy mirrored drinks trolley into the kitchen pantry, out of sight, and thinks he might just be going insane.

 

***

 

_(you're happier  
aren't you?)_

 

Chris hasn’t stopped staring at him all night.

 

Darren’s been mingling, soaking up the familial atmosphere of their little show family in Lea’s sprawling Hills residence, and something halfway resembling a genuine smile has begun to emerge onto his face.

 

That is, until he realises that it’s nearing the end of the night, and no matter how much Chris stares, he’s never going to come over to Darren to even say hi. He doesn’t let it get to him,  _refuses_  to let it get to him. If moving on is what it takes to feel normal again, that’s what Darren will try to do.

 

Except he and Chris never do seem to be able to stay apart for long.

 

Later, Darren stands outside the bathroom, scrolling aimlessly through his phone while he waits for whoever’s in there to finish up. The door opens and he’s ready to give them a polite greeting, when he finds that the face he’s looking up at is one he’s kissed and touched and loved, and couldn’t forget if he tried.

 

 _Chris_.

 

His face is puffy and his eyes are bloodshot, and he looks at Darren like he’s just put a knife to his throat. Immediately, Darren can see the walls going up, can see Chris school his expression into one fixed and emotionless, but it’s too late, really.

 

“Hey,” Darren says slowly.

 

“Hi.”

 

Chris hasn’t moved from the doorway, Darren hasn’t moved from the hall, and they’re both stuck in a lapse in time - frozen.

 

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” asks Chris, finally.

 

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

 

He sighs, holding the bathroom door opens for him. Darren says nothing, only brushes by him into the blindingly white bathroom. There, hops up onto the marble counter (feigning relaxation tends to make Chris less nervous), and eyes Chris seriously.

 

Chris, predictably, leans back against the shower cubicle, practically as far away from Darren as he can get without being rude.

 

There’s silence for a moment- the thick, suffocating sort, full of unspoken words.

 

Then, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

 

Darren looks down at himself and realises that yeah, it isn’t his own shirt. It had felt a little tighter around the shoulders and arms when he’d put it on (part of the reason he’d worn it tonight, he’ll admit), but hadn’t thought much of it.

 

Chris speaks again, even quieter. “I left it at your place the first time I stayed over.”

 

Darren desperately hopes the tone of his skin is helping to hide the way his face is burning up. “I- uh, I swear I didn’t wear your shirt on purpose or anything. I don’t remember seeing it on you, and assumed it was mine since it was, you know, in my closet.”

 

Chris’ expression softens a little, and the whisper of a smile ghosts across his face. “I stayed over for the first time like a month after we met- you’d barely had time to see me in anything.”

 

“That-,” the words are hard to get out now that Darren’s remembering just how fast they’d fallen for each other, how  _trancelike_  it had been. “That would explain it.”

 

The silence returns, until he can stand it no longer. “You never told my why you’re upset, C.”

 

There’s a flicker of something in Chris’ eyes at the nickname. “I’m not upset,” he says, immediately.

 

“ _Chris_.”

 

“I- I thought I could handle seeing you tonight but-,” Chris’ voice falters, and before Darren knows it, he’s up in front of the counter, so close that he’d only have to push Darren’s knees apart to close the distance between their bodies. “I feel like I’m going to hurt you with what I’m going to say.”

 

This isn’t what Darren is expecting. “How- Chris, we ended because of  _me_. You might have said the words, but I was the one who gave you an out.” He reaches a hand out, asks for permission with his eyes, and rests the palm of his hand on Chris’ cheek. “I gave you an out because I thought I was trapping you.”

 

“And I took that out because I was scared,” Chris replies, turning into Darren’s hand, pushing  imperceptibly. “Everyone kept telling me to- to let go of you if I knew what was good for me, and I felt like such a  _child_  when they told me I was making the wrong decision.”

 

“What are you trying to say?” Darren asks, and his heart feels like it’s a second away from either falling to pieces or jumping into his throat.

 

“I was so  _unhappy_. I- I still am. I went into it thinking it was the right decision and came out of it knowing it worst the worst decision I had ever  _made_. Darren… don’t give me the right to ask for you back. I don’t deserve it- not after what I did- ”

 

The words are whispered, and Darren’s heart stammers a tattoo against his chest. “I will  _always_.”

 

Chris’ eyes are bright with moisture when he looks up at Darren. “I broke your heart, didn’t I? I know I broke my own.”

 

“I-” Darren can’t say no- how could he say no? He could never really lie to anyone he loved. (Loves.)

 

“Say the word and I’ll leave,” Chris murmurs. “Say the word and I’ll let you have someone you actually deserve, someone who won’t fuck up something  _incredible_  like what we had-”

 

His words are cut off by the sudden press of Darren’s lips on his, hungry and searching and  _sudden_ , seeking a way to shut Chris up, to stop him from talking so much that he ends up talking himself out of it.

 

They part, and Darren knocks his forehead against Chris’, hooks his knees around Chris’ legs to pull him close. “What we  _have_ ,” he corrects, once he’s regained his breath.

 

“Baby-”

 

“You use too many words.”

 

“I’m a writer, Dare.”

 

“Words can’t make you feel like this-,” Darren tucks his face into the crook of Chris’ neck, sucks a kiss there- the faintest pull of his lips, “-and like this-,” another kiss, deeper this time, down by Chris’ collar.

 

“Darren-”

 

“ _Shhh_ ,” he replies, and Chris laughs, pulling away, eyes alight, and  _oh- there he is._

 

“We’re in Lea Michele’s bathroom, and our bosses are outside.”

 

Darren pouts, and Chris rolls his eyes. “If I may be so bold as to ask,” he starts, pausing for a shorter, softer kiss, “will you come home?”

 

“With you,” Darren replies, “always.”

 

That night, they drive down a path he could trace in his sleep. Light from the lampposts glances off Chris’ nose, off his eyelashes and his kiss-swollen lips, and Darren realises:

 

You can’t tie off a string if it’s in an infinite loop with another.

_(i am still in love with you)_


End file.
